


Paradise Found

by megyal



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-13
Updated: 2006-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 11:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal





	Paradise Found

_**milk**_:  
Harry is _not_ the pondering sort. He is more of the hex-first-and-ask-questions-later variety, which is fine for the soldier-type, but really does not help if he wants to be viewed as some sort of intellectual. So, basically, he surprises himself when he sits back on the bed in the early mornings, covered in the miles of downy comforter that Draco insisted on buying, and deliberates the cool stripe of spine and shocking blonde hair that is revealed when he leans his head and looks down the warm space between them.

He feels that if he runs his finger down that spine, he will come away with dollop of..._something_, so decadently creamy that it should be illegal to _look_ at, much less to lick and taste. Draco's skin is smooth without being too soft, and Harry actually can feel the fine light hairs on his back underneath his finger-tips, even without touching him. Draco does not really get this fixation, and sometimes tends to snip at Harry when he stares for too long, because underneath all that Malfoy confidence and cool bravado, Draco can be a little unsure about matters of the heart and skin. Why that is so, Harry cannot tell.

What he _can_ tell though, is that when he finally gives in to the compulsion to lean over and press his mouth against Draco's ear, he can taste _L'Eau du Draco_, light, silky, addictive, and he makes sure to breathe a little deeper than usual, pulling it all in to cloud his mind and get him hard against the cleft of Draco's ass; and then exhaling a bit forcefully, so that Draco snorts awake and turns around into his mouth, pale hands already reaching to grab and stroke sleepily, eyelids pulled shut against the dusty sunshine streaming through the blinds that Harry forgot to pull shut the night before. Harry makes sure to keep his eyes open, so that when Draco pulls back, he will see the exact moment when Draco's lashes, light and sparse (the thorn in Draco's vain side, he hates that Harry's lashes are fuller and longer), finally slice open and pin Harry down on the pillow.

"Were you _smelling_ me again, Potter?" This is invariably in Draco's patented sneer, but smoothed over for Harry's sake, and Harry will give the scripted glare, voice clipped yet heated; for this is their favourite game, pretending that they're back in school and plotting each other's demise.

"You wish."

And this is where Draco clambers all over him, not realising the thrill that powers through Harry to see milky skin filling his vision from corner to corner, soft grey eyes below a fringe of longish light hair; The former Ice Prince, smiling slightly down at him, his, his, _his_.

_**honey**_:  
When Draco drapes himself over Harry in the mornings, he does not _clamber_. A Malfoy does not clamber. Instead, they swing one long pale leg over and gracefully shift so that they are sitting on top of the person who had whinged disgracefully when he had spotted the lovely soft comforter and asked to have it bought and sent to the flat. The very same person that insists on stealing said comforter in the night, leaves the blinds open to let the morning sun bake Draco's woefully pale skin, and literally snarls in Draco's ear every morning to wake him up.

And then it is all Draco's to inspect; Draco calls him a wild gypsy, with the wilful dark hair that repulses even Draco's grim attempts to calm it down, and the bottle-green eyes gazing up at him, so sharp as they roam Draco's skin that he can almost feel scratch marks. What Harry is _looking_ at so intently is always a sore point with Draco, because everyone knows that he's severely melanin-deprived. But he mostly keeps his tongue. He would rather use the tip of it to explore the hot saccharine corner of Harry's neck.

He remembers when Harry was in school, and how pale he was, almost as pale as Draco himself; now that they're older and trying to piece together a normal life, Harry seems to have developed a fetish for the sun, declaring loudly that he was always locked away in the summer, and now is his chance to get in all he missed. Harry's delighted sunbathing (nude, and it's a lucky thing Draco can cast a decent Disillusionment Charm, or the neighbours would be calling the police everyday) has caused his skin to take on a lovely golden sheen, and even created lighter streaks in Harry's hair, and that is more for Draco to envy about him, apart from the long black lashes (damn him).

But Harry is sweet. Inside and out. When Draco had huffed about his inability to tan properly and get sunkissed highlights, Harry had run his long fingers through the fall of fair strands, laughingly changing the shade of some of them, until Draco had ended up with a shock of zebra-esque hair; Harry had giggled helplessly before taking Draco's affronted face in his palms and kissing him, stroking his hair and ending the colour-change charm. The former Hero, laughing in their bed, his, his, _his_.

His, his, _his_.   
Draco is chilly during the day to nearly everyone, but is warm _crème de la crème_ in Harry's arms at night.

Harry is diurnally accomodating to nearly everyone, but is exclusive satisfaction for Draco's sweet-tooth by candlelight.

_fin_

_Come closer love  
Fill my days with sunshine  
Shake off the cloak of sadness_

_Light all the candles  
Let me swim in milk and honey..._  
-_Come Closer Love_, by [Mona Omar](http://www.arabworldbooks.com/Literature/poetry3.html)


End file.
